The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Fresh Meat

Poetry, that brain-breaking work
that yields naught worth a dime,
Though it bears my fossils' imprints,
its dignity is betrayed by rhyme.

Words, those hard-earned vessels
that mean nigh naught of the intent,
For each bears a toothy impression
the bite that a lithic god once sent.

A stone soup of broken indenture
that schmeckt like a young nouveau,
We who truly taste, spill the bitter bile
and savor the silence of what we know.
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